


(Love your) Pillow Talk

by a beta perspective (Ejunkiet)



Series: Holiday-themed shorts [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Character Study, Drama & Romance, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4619673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/a%20beta%20perspective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been two years since Stiles has seen Derek Hale, and so it’s entirely unexpected when he turns up on the doorstep of his college apartment. He wants to say ‘fuck off’, or 'screw you asshole’, but what comes out is 'I missed you’, and what’s even more surprising is that he actually means it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Love your) Pillow Talk

**Author's Note:**

> The Morning After Fic, beta'd by the wonderful evil_bunny_king. Partially inspired by the reply Hoechlin gave to the question of whether or not Derek would follow the pack to college (the answer was yes). Also partially inspired by ‘Love’ by Daughter.
> 
> _“I can’t erase it from my mind. I just replay it, love - think of it all of the time.”_

It’s been two years since Stiles has seen Derek Hale, and so it’s entirely unexpected when he turns up on the doorstep of his college apartment. He wants to say ‘fuck off’, or 'screw you asshole’, but what comes out is 'I missed you’, and what’s even more surprising is that he actually means it.

The party inside is still going full swing, and because it’s awkward to have a conversation in the doorway when there’s music blaring behind him, Stiles invites him in and up to his room where it’s a little bit quieter.

He blames the alcohol for the way his heart is going crazy inside of his chest, and for the way that he can’t stop staring at Derek, even though he’s really only had a few drinks. It’s not until the door to his room is closed and the two of them are alone, that Stiles realizes it might be something more.

He licks his lips out of nervous habit, and catches the way Derek’s eyes follow the movement. There is a moment of taught silence where neither of them breathes, and it feels as the whole world is holding its breath - before they’re falling into each other, all lips and teeth and tongue, and Stiles feels more awake, more alive, than he can ever remember.

Stiles makes sure to flip the lock on the door before they collapse onto the bed, and the rest of the evening passes in a blur of heat and sensation, the forged connection between them flaring until they’re both caught within its flames.

–

Stiles wakes up feeling comfortably worn, muscles stretched and tired, and with a deep seated feeling of contentment that he hasn’t experienced in a long while. It’s like one of those lazy mornings that only seem to occur at the end of term, on the occasional Sunday when Stiles flatmates had left, when Stiles had managed to erase any thoughts of work and school from his mind.

“Mmmn.”

It’s unusual for the room to be this bright in the morning, though, and he quickly finds that it is impossible to sleep, which is just. _Ugh_. Letting out a loud groan of displeasure, he throws a hand back, feeling around in the sheets until he feels the warm body curled comfortably behind him. He pinches it.

“When you opened the window, you forgot to close the blinds, you ass.”

A pair of warm hands wrap around his midsection, pulling him in tighter until he feels as if he’s being spooned by a furnace.

“Nah-mph.”

“That didn’t even make sense, Derek.”

He’s tired. His classes finished three weeks ago, he’d finished the last of his tutoring prep work last night, and the party they’d had in celebration was something else, if the beginnings of his hangover tell him anything - and really, this means he’s finally on holiday, and should not be awake right now.

This is all Derek’s fault, and he’s not even suffering for it. Asshole.

He reaches out to pinch Derek again.

Derek only gives a grunt in response. Stiles manages to muster, somehow, enough energy to break free from Derek’s grip. Derek doesn’t even react to that, just burrows further into the sheets.

“Wake up.”

There’s a lot more shuffling and grunting that sends the bed tipping beneath him, before a face finally emerges from the blankets, cheeks puffy and flushed with sleep.

It catches him off guard, his heart skipping a beat as his breath catches in his throat. Derek looks softer, somehow, dressed in only a tight pair of Stiles pyjama pants; relaxed and calm in a way Stiles has never seen him before, in all the years they’d known each other in Beacon Hills.

He smiles, and it does a lot to alleviate the lingering stress that has followed him into the morning, hovering at the periphery of his thoughts. Stiles doesn’t think about the unanswered questions, like why exactly Derek was on his doorstep last night after nearly two years of next-to-no contact, or how long he planned to stay.

Instead he leans forward to press a soft kiss to Derek’s lips, his heart leaping in his chest as Derek reaches out to bring him closer, fingers curling around the nape of his neck.

“Now, are you awake?”

Derek’s laugh is a soft huff against his cheek, and Stiles can feel the shape of the word against his lips as Derek speaks, “unfortunately.” But he’s smiling, his eyes warm and crinkled at the corners as he leans forward and up, maneuvering them until Stiles is beneath him.

Derek presses a series of small kisses along Stiles’ jawline, trailing a path from his nose to the corner of his eyes, before finally moving in to press a longer, slower kiss against his lips. They’re both a little out of breath when they break apart, and Stiles can’t suppress the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, you should have thought about that before you left the blinds open.”

Derek gives him a look, before suddenly falling forwards to blanket Stiles with his body, completely without remorse when Stiles lets out a squeak, feeling suffocated by the weight and heat.

“Derek, that’s too much, get off-!”

His words are cut off as Derek moves down again, covering his mouth with his own, and neither of them have much time for talk after that.

\--

Later, when they’re both catching their breath, Derek's head resting on Stiles' abdomen and Stiles absentmindedly running his fingers through his hair - somehow, despite everything that has happened in the last three years of his life, it’s _here_ that he feels most comfortable. Where things finally feel _right._

It makes his chest constrict in a way that he doesn’t want to think about, even as Derek’s grip tightens at his waist, fingers pressing soothing circles into the skin there, and he finds himself looking for a way to break the silence.

Conversation. Conversation always works. “So. How’d it go with Cora?”

He winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Tact, Stiles. _Tact._

The last time Stiles had heard from Derek he’d been on his way to see her, staying at crappy motel a few miles this side of the border with a busted phone charger, making the preparations to enter foreign territory. It hadn’t been easy – they’d had to go to the Calavera’s for documents and visas, which they were granted only on the proviso that they clean up a few messes along the way – and even then, Derek had worried about the reception of the other pack, of Cora herself.

Derek doesn’t seem to mind the question though, taking in a deep breath and nuzzling his face against the skin of his stomach. The rasp of his beard – too long to be called stubble now – is sort of ticklish against his skin, and he fights the urge to squirm, tightening his grip on Derek’s hair. He makes a soft, rumbling sound at that, pressing a soft, closed mouthed kiss to his skin as he inhales again – scenting, Stiles figures, if Scott’s previous behaviour around his girlfriends was of any indication. Stiles files away that little tidbit for further examination later.

"It went well. She’s good. Better. Her pack are good people, welcoming; they treated me as one of their own. I stayed for a few months."

"Braeden as well?”

There’s a pause in Derek’s movements, and Stiles glances down to find Derek watching him, brows quirked and openly curious. “No. She split after a month in Mexico. Last I heard, she was following a lead in Moscow.”

Stiles takes in a quick intake of breath, his eyes wide on Derek’s. “She went to _Russia?”_

“She said she’d contact Deaton if she found anything.”

And that – that made a hell of a lot of sense, actually, considering that Deaton had gone _missing_ a little over a year ago; just closed up the clinic and left without a word, just as things started turning ugly again.

After it had become clear that the good vet had no intention of coming back, Scott had contacted the other local veterinary clinic in Beacon Hills – the _only_ other one – and he’d been lucky enough to resume his internship there. As far as Stiles knew, he still worked there part-time during the summer. Scott and he hadn’t been really talking, though, not since before Stiles left for college. The days when Stiles could be relied on for details on Scott related activities were long over.

There’s a soft rustle below him, strands of hair falling through his limp fingers as Derek angles his head up to look at him. He smiles and, because he can’t help himself, leans forward, brushing a soft kiss against Derek’s temple. When he moves back, Derek’s eyes are closed, his lips curved in a soft smile, and he presses a kiss there too, for luck.

He digs his hands into Derek’s hair again, scratching his nails lightly across his scalp, and that’s when Stiles hear it: a low, barely audible rumble that vibrates nicely against his fingertips.

When Stiles was in kindergarten, he’d been taken out of school for a couple of weeks for a special vacation to Poland to visit his father’s family. From the blur of happy memories Stiles has of that trip - it was the last family holiday before his mother’s diagnosis – there was one in particular that stood out, namely because Stiles was never allowed a pet growing up: Stiles waking up in his Bubbie’s room, surrounded by her clan of cats – ever growing since the passing of her late husband two years prior.

The sound Derek is making right now reminds him of that morning, cocooned by a veritable litter of cats of all shapes and sizes, and he glances down at him, biting down on his lip to stem the bubble of laughter that swells in his chest.

"Derek, are you- _purring_?"  
  
The sound stops, and colour flushes the back of Derek's neck (or what Stiles can see of it) as he shrugs to hide it, shoulders rising to his ears.  
  
"No."  
  
"No?" That's a lie. Stiles has spent what feels like his entire life around werewolves, and born wolves in particular have the distinct disadvantage of being terrible liars. In retrospect, it's easy to understand why; in a family of wolves, it’d be almost impossible to hide the truth or your emotions, and so he wouldn’t have had much practice. "I must have been imagining things."

He sneaks a hand down, ignoring the warning rumble emanating from deep within Derek's chest as he runs his fingers through Derek's hair again. He tries to mimic the unconscious pattern he'd been tracing earlier, and he's not sure he's gotten it right until he feels Derek shudder beneath his hands, breathing out on a long, strangled breath. He doesn't make the noise though, however much Stiles can tell he _wants_ to, his hands twisting in the sheets until the fabric creaks under the strain – and so help him, he will make Derek _pay_ if he tears a hole in Stiles’ sheets.

He says as much, even as he massages his fingers into Derek’s scalp, and he hears Derek snort just before he reaches the area just behind Derek's ears and presses his nails in. It's playing dirty, and he knows it - _Derek_ certainly knows it, if the increase in the volume of his growls is of any indication. There’s a loud tearing sound that sounds distinctly like claws rending through sheets, but before Stiles has a chance to comment on it, Derek’s growls break off suddenly and morphs into a groan.

Derek’s voice is a barely audible, breathless version of itself a moment later when he says, “don’t stop.”

A moment later, the sound starts again, and Stiles has to bite on his lip to smother his grin.  
  
"Shut up."

"Is this a born wolf thing, or a Derek thing?"

" _Stiles_." His voice is strangled. "Let it go."

"Make me."

He does just that by pushing Stiles off the bed, ignoring Stiles' gripes from the floor as he sheds the pyjama pants and walks naked across the room to use his shower.

Stiles isn't really complaining, though: even upside down, it’s still one hell of a view.

\--

When Derek gets back from the shower with Stiles’ towel wrapped around his waist, his hair dripping with excess water he hadn’t bothered to towel off, Stiles knows that they really should talk about this - about the fact that Derek had made his first visit to see Stiles at university and wound up staying the night.

Intuitively, Stiles knows that getting it out into the open _now_ would be the best way forward, but _knowing_ that and actually _doing_ that are two drastically different things. So Stiles puts it off: cycling through the shower as Derek finished drying off and changes into a new set of clothes from the handful he’d packed with him the night before. They get distracted by the door, Stiles pressing Derek against it for a change, mouths crushing together as they grasp at each other, unwilling to let go or back away.

When they make it to Stiles’ favourite place to think, the local coffee shop with cheap espresso and free wifi, the agitation that has crept up on him since they left his apartment is making it so he can’t quite keep still, and he orders two shots of espresso, downing the first one at the counter before they head back to their table.

He can tell Derek’s eyes are on him, watching the twitching movements of his hands around the strap of his backpack, but he doesn’t say anything; just grabs his mocha – _not_ what Stiles would have guessed as Derek’s drink of choice – and follows Stiles to a booth in the far corner of the shop, wedged in an out of the way corner between the window and the internal wall.

When they’re seated, Stiles fiddles with the cup in his hands until Derek’s hand settles on top of his, stilling the movement.

“Why are you here, Derek?"

Stiles keeps his eyes averted when he asks the question, not really quite prepared yet to hear the answer. This was - whatever it was, it was _good_ , and he’s reluctant to lose it, the easy way that Derek acts around him, the soft smiles and even softer touches. Shit.

"Scott said he hadn't heard from you in a while."

"I see."

"And I was worried about you, Stiles." Derek’s hand squeezes his until Stiles glances back up at him, to find his brows creasing in such a familiar way that Stiles wants to trace their shape with his fingertips and kiss the wrinkle that forms between them. "Your emails stopped."

This conversation would be much easier if they weren't face to face - if Derek couldn't read each and every emotion that he was feeling right now. "Well, I thought you weren't going to come back."

The conversation lapses into silence, broken only by the sound of the espresso machine and clattering of glasses. Derek looks thoughtful, still looking impossibly soft in a close-knit sweater that v’s open at the throat, and it's a long moment before he comes up with a reply.

"I didn't think I would either." It's not what Stiles was expecting. He narrows his eyes at Derek, watching the way he holds his coffee mug with both hands, his eyes closing as he raises it, breathing in deeply before taking a sip. He meets Stiles gaze when he lowers it, steady and calm and impossible for Stiles to read.

Frustrated, Stiles raises his own little cup of espresso, staring into the swirling contents as he tries to figure out what to make of that. Finally, he asks, "what made you change your mind?"

Derek's response is immediate this time. "You."

Stiles nearly chokes on a mouthful of coffee, taking a moment to breathe after he manages to swallow before he looks back at Derek. Derek, who looks torn between amusement and exasperation, and this at least, is a Derek Stiles is more acquainted with.

Derek doesn't wait for Stiles to respond to that before he continues, leaning across the narrow surface of their booth so that he can take Stiles' hand. "I think we should talk about what happened last night."

"Well, there goes my plan of just ignoring the awkward until it went away."

"Stiles." He doesn't say anything else, just squeezes his hand and waits for Stiles to take the lead, and that is - really, considering he started this - completely unfair.

"I- well. Where to start." 

He lets go of Derek's hand and drops back against the siding of the booth, thinking. Derek straightens in the seat across from him and picks up his coffee cup,

"First off. This whole conversation is going to be kinda redundant if you leave again. So, Derek. How are long do you plan on staying?"

"Indefinitely."

That's not really the answer Stiles was looking for, and he tries again, reiterating, "how long are you staying _here_ , in town?"

Derek is watching him, head tilted to one side as if he is also listening, and Stiles is uncomfortably aware of the thudding pace of his heart. He takes a moment to try to get it back under his control as Derek places his mug down carefully, kicking his chair back and getting to his feet.

“Can we step outside for a minute?

He doesn’t even wait for a response before he's rounding the side of the booth and tugging Stiles to his feet.

“Wait—Derek, what?”

Derek shakes his head in response, once, firm, and continues to drag Stiles through the coffee shop. At a loss at what else to do, Stiles lets him, smiling widely at their server as he assures her “we’ll just be a moment.”

Derek doesn’t stop until they’ve rounded the corner to where the street peters away into greenery, and he’s put some distance between them and civilisation. He looks calmer out here, the tension that had started to creep into the edges of his features melting away under the cool sunlight and mild autumn breeze, breathing in deep, long breaths. Stiles waits until he turns back to him, his expression apologetic, his hands still wrapped tightly around Stiles’ before he asks him, “What’s going on, Derek?”

“It’s stifling in there, and you’re just not - hearing me.” He lets go of Stiles hands and makes a move towards him, as if to cup his face before he stops, his expression twisting as he lowers his arms back down to his sides. He lets out another soft laugh, except this one is sharper, almost self-deprecating, which Stiles doesn’t like. “I’m not good at this. I think we both know that.”

“I’m trying, Derek.”

“I know.” He takes a deep breath, his gaze flickering across Stiles’ features as he appears to steel himself. “I want to stay. I want to make this work, whatever this is.”

Stiles’ brain pretty much malfunctions at that. There are – so many questions, _so many questions_ , after that statement - but there’s only really one question he wants answered, even if he’s already asked it before. “What made you change your mind?”

Derek lets out a breath that sounds more like a soft laugh than anything else, before he gives into the urge to reach out to Stiles, taking his face in his hands again.

“ _You.”_

The _‘idiot’_ is unspoken, but before Stiles can even act offended, Derek is ducking in to kiss him again, slower and more careful this time, taking his time to steadily but surely take Stiles apart.

They’re both gasping when Derek breaks away, trailing a line of kisses along Stiles’ jaw that sends a flare of heat straight to Stiles gut before he asks, “Is that okay?”

Stiles whacks him on the shoulder. “Just shut up and kiss me.”

 

_\--_

 

_Six months later  
_

“Ready?”

He takes in a deep breath, holding it for five seconds before letting it out in a gust of self-directed frustration and annoyance, which he tries to keep out of his voice when he turns to face Derek. “There’s no backing out now.”

The door to Beacon Hill’s other veterinary clinic opens to a familiar figure hunched over a stack of files, chewing on the lid of a pen that drops from his mouth the moment he notices the two of them. “Stiles?”

“Hey.”

Scott moves before Stiles can say anything else, and Stiles is enveloped by a pair of warm, strong arms, the smell of antiseptic sharp in his nose from where his face has been crushed against Scott’s chest. But Stiles couldn’t care less - returning the crushing embrace with every ounce of strength he can muster. Scott’s breath hitches in his ear, caught halfway between a laugh and a sob, and Stiles presses his face against Scott’s coat, swallowing down the lump of emotion in his throat that’s threatening to swell over.

If Stiles starts crying, then Scott will definitely start crying, and really, there were going to be enough tears in their immediate future that he didn’t need to add to them now.

“I missed you, too, buddy.”

**Author's Note:**

> [ main blog ](http://ejunkiet.tumblr.com) / [teen wolf blog](http://abetaperspective.tumblr.com)


End file.
